


Terzetto

by Rotpeach



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Multi, Other, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You were the one that almost got away.
Relationships: Implied Yun-Jin Lee/Reader, Ji-Woon Hak | The Trickster/Reader
Comments: 28
Kudos: 110





	Terzetto

**Author's Note:**

> been working on this like a fiend pretty much since the reveal. all character death is of course temporary since it's the entity's realm, but it's still pretty brutal lol so please heed the tags.

If you wanted, you could try to explain it in clean notation—the language you shared. You could line things up in a way that’s easy to listen to. G-sharp minor, beauty and danger. There you were in the overripe sweetness of it all, and there he was setting the tempo. Timid flirtations. A leisurely pianissimo. And it didn’t last, of course, anyone who’s seen the news knows that, the sweetness gone rancid sour, harmony to chaotic noise, but not suddenly, not all at once; _poco a poco crescendo._

There’s a hand on your shoulder. Somebody shakes you awake. You’re sprawled in an open field, delirious, muttering all around you. The grass feels wrong. Strangers swarm you, prop you up against a tree in the warmth of a campfire. On the other side, through the flames, you see someone you know. “Yun-Jin?” you say. This must be a dream. Your mind is foggy, the world is gauzed in dark, smoky haze, and they never found Yun-Jin’s body. Another nightmare, but it feels so real. Embers crackle in pizzicato. “Yun-Jin? Is that you?”

The shape of her flickers in the heat haze. She wraps her arms around herself. She’s wearing her favorite jacket, the dazzling white material glinting like diamonds when the light hits it just right. But it’s duller now. There are tears in the immaculate seams and rust-colored stains crusted into the ends of the sleeves. A nightmare. It has to be. She would never wear something so dirty. Yun-Jin gazes through the fire, maybe at you, maybe at something behind you, maybe at nothing. You hear a song in your head; a throbbing drumbeat. A moody, sirenic melody. A husky baritone, purring against your ear.

_And I buried it where I plant the flowers_

_Watered it just to pass the hours_

_Wondered where its roots might go_

_If it’d been allowed to grow_

Yun-Jin speaks softly. You don’t know if the words are meant for you. “This is how it was always supposed to end,” she says. “All of us, together.”

*

There had been a storm that night. You sloshed home through it. Your feet hurt and your bleary eyes couldn’t focus. The grueling shifts at the electronics store were supposed to be temporary. The shitty apartment with the asbestos popcorn ceiling and ancient radiator was supposed to be temporary. You were going to go back to school and make up with your folks eventually. You were just between things, you assured yourself, getting yourself together. Just one more fuckup in the big city. 

You microwaved dinner and got online. One of your friends had messaged you, a simple _“holy fucking shit”_ with a Youtube link. The video was twenty minutes long and there was a boy band you were vaguely aware of in the thumbnail. “NO SPIN StarToday Exclusive Interview Highlights: Cutest Moments” was the title. You didn’t watch it. You read the news instead and checked social media. World still on fire, nothing new. You tapped your fingers on the table, humming under your breath. You thought up a great hook at work to slide into a composition you were working on, something dark, atmospheric, melancholy. 

It happened quietly. There you were with a spoonful of freezer burned macaroni in one hand. You scrolled. Looked up the weather for tomorrow. Checked your email. Did a double-take when you saw a couple thousand dollars come in from your Bandcamp. You read it a third time, disbelieving. Angelonia was a passion project at best. It didn’t pay the bills; it wasn’t supposed to. But you had a huge spike in your follower count, more plays in the last few days than in your entire time online. 

You got another message from the same friend; a timestamp. In the video, a distressingly attractive man sat on a studio sofa. Ji-Woon Hak. He was all over the internet. You didn’t have to know the band to recognize him. He was clearly the “bad boy” of the group with that sloppy posture compared to the others, his haircut wild and roguish. English subtitles flashed beneath his face as he spoke. 

“My biggest inspiration?” he said, humming thoughtfully. “That’s sort of tough. There are so many things that speak to me. It’s other people, mostly. The ways that we interact. The ways we love and hurt each other. I’ve always been interested in that. But there is another thing that’s been very influential. It’s another artist, actually, a foreign one. They’re called Angelonia, have you heard of them? They sing in English, so it’s harder for me to understand, but I was really affected by their music.”

Your heart skipped a beat. No way he said that. The subtitles were wrong. Your friend was pulling the cruelest prank of all time. One of the other band members leaned over to slap him on the shoulder. “He says it’s harder, but it’s basically impossible. I have to translate it for him. That’s why he signed up for that English class, you know, he’s tired of me.” 

The group laughed. Ji-Woon shoved his hand away. “I don’t want to rely on you forever, that’s all.” 

Off-camera, the interviewer said, “This artist must be great to have had such a profound effect on you. Would you collab with them, if you had the chance?” 

Ji-Woon smiled and it was warm and passionate and utterly heartstopping. “That would be a dream come true,” he said, and that was it. You were in love.

*

“How long?” Yun-Jin asks you. 

You look up at her, bewildered. You just died. Some monster of a man tore you screaming out of a bear trap and dropped you on a meat hook like a pig. You still feel it. The wound no longer gouged into your shoulder somehow still gapes and aches. The sky split apart and arachnid arms wrapped around you, cut through you, carried you into the void. You died. And then you came back. You woke up in the grass all over again. “How long what?” you ask, still dazed.

“How long since the massacre at Mightee One HQ?” She’s biting her nails. You’ve never seen her do that before. Yun-Jin’s delicate lavender enamel manicure, cracked and caked with dirt. 

“A few days, I think,” you say. You don’t know for sure. You hadn’t slept well since. Everything blurred together, the world simultaneously at a standstill and spinning too fast. _Vivace, vivace!_ you can hear him saying, that playful smirk still vivid in your mind’s eye. _Something faster next time, Angel. I don’t want to give the audience a chance to breathe._

“That’s impossible,” Yun-Jin says. There are dozens of other people stuck here with you. You only know a couple names, just the ones who were there in the heat of danger, showing you the ropes. Kate waves at you from the campfire, guitar across her lap. You wave back, marveling at how she can play without her fingers trembling. You haven’t stopped shaking yet. 

For some reason, Yun-Jin stands out in the shivering grass, far from the warmth and light. She won’t sit with them. Jeff wandered over to check on you a while ago but he didn’t say a word to her. “Everyone seems nice,” you say. Yun-Jin doesn’t acknowledge the comment.

“Where were you?” she asks. There’s a tremor in her voice, something equal parts pained, furious, and despairing. “Did you know? Did you just decide not to show up? He asks me every time I see him why you weren’t there that day.” 

The words are like ice down your back. “He’s here?” You glance at the campfire, scanning the crowd with sudden apprehension. He can’t be. He’d be mingling if he was, the center of attention, crooning along to the lively twang of Kate’s song.

“He’s here,” Yun-Jin says. “Not with us. With them.” She sits on the ground next to you, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “I was mad at you. I watched him kill all those people, but it was you I was cursing and screaming at. I said your name a thousand times.” You catch just a glimpse of her through that hard shell, the weary honesty you recognize from a night out drinking in Seoul. She grabs you, fisting her hands in your shirt. Her mascara is running. “How dare you,” she says hoarsely. “How dare you leave me all alone like that.”

You cover her hands with yours and squeeze gently. She cries without making a sound.

*

It was all so slow and surreal for a while. _Adagio._ Words on a screen. Ji-Woon’s schedule was demanding but he made time to message you between choreography sessions and photoshoots. _“Gonna listen to your new song tonight. Would have done it already, but Miss Producer caught me slacking at the studio today. She’s suuuuuuper not happy about it~!”_

 _“You need to be nicer to your producer,”_ you typed back. _“I don’t know how she hasn’t quit yet, with all you put her through.”_

You learned early on that Ji-Woon liked pushing people’s buttons. It was part of his public persona that he teased his bandmates the most mercilessly, throwing out callous statements during interviews that made the others stammer and playfully scold him. He had an adversarial relationship with his producer, constantly teasing her, testing her patience, seeing how much he could get away with. There was no end to the stories he told you about “forgetting” to return signed waivers to her, or deliberately showing up late just to see how intensely her face flushed in embarrassment while she made excuses for him to the executives.

 _“She won’t quit,”_ he replied. _“She needs me too much~”_

To your immense surprise, there was a passionate artist under that bubbly troublemaker façade. He was genuine in his appreciation for your music. He listened to your releases several times before messaging you about them, asking about the lyrical composition, the percussion layering, the ambient noise mixed into the melody. You were tinkering in Audacity with some new plug-ins when he finally got back to you that night, effusive as always.

_“You never let me down, Angel. I love your sound. That gravelly noise in the intro, like breaking concrete, gave me a visceral reaction. Such an unpleasant sound, but it turned into something poignant by the end. I felt cornered by it. A song about empty people...was there anyone in particular on your mind when you wrote this? An ex-lover, maybe…?”_

The praise warmed your face. _“I can see why you might think that haha it’s a very harsh song. But if it’s about anyone, it’s about me.”_ Somehow, it was easy to tell him things. It was the distance, maybe, the thousands of miles between the two of you and the computer screen barrier. Maybe that, or maybe something else. Something that made your pulse pick up every time you saw him start typing back. 

_“I want to call you with the video on,”_ he said. _“Can I?”_

The request completely blindsided you. Your mind raced. You smoothed your hair down self-consciously. You were a mess, exhausted, ragged-looking, still wearing your uniform from work. But the incoming call alert signaled with an electronic warble and you didn’t have time to think. It rang once, twice, halfway through a third time, and you answered with a squeaky, “Um. Hello?” You winced at the sight of yourself in the webcam. What a stupid idea.

Ji-Woon’s camera shook and you heard rustling. He suddenly appeared in frame, lying in a luxurious bed with his hair stylishly tousled, looking too perfect to exist on the same planet as you. He had a sharp jawline and full lips, his eyes a shocking crystal blue. He’d been trying colored contact lately, he told you, cycling through green and purple earlier this week. You tried to talk and all that came out was squeaky noise. A smile spread across his face. 

“Hmm. That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his beautiful voice like velvet in your ears. “You don’t look like an empty person at all.” 

You blinked a few times, unable to muster a response. “I look like shit.” 

Ji-Woon laughed. It wasn’t the restrained chuckle he put on in public appearances, the charming little sound tailored to make his fans swoon. It was real, raucous laughter. It made his microphone peak. “You’re so blunt,” he said. “I like it!” It felt like getting the wave of purchase notifications from Bandcamp all over again. Unreal. Dreamlike. Ji-Woon’s eyes flicked around, taking in every inch of your face, your hair, your tired eyes, like he wanted to remember each feature. “Yeah. Definitely not empty,” he said. “I know empty people. I am one, you know. We’re a dime a dozen in this industry.” He winked. “Don’t tell my fans.” 

It was surprising to hear him say something so scathing, but that whimsical, teasing edge remained. A cheerful cynic. Something about that endeared you further. “It does seem like a pretty restrictive lifestyle. Are you unhappy?” You wanted to slap yourself the second the words were out. What were you, another interviewer? He probably got questions like that all the time. 

“Not at all. I love it here,” he said. He rolled onto his side, propping his phone up against a pillow. The perspective granted the illusion of laying in bed with him, and your pulse picked up. “I’m the kind of person who does well in the spotlight. I never get worn out the way the others do.” You saw him break character, his smile turning into a too-honest scowl. “I wish I got to write more of our lyrics, though. Did you hear the latest single? _Booooring_ ~! But Miss Producer asked me to ‘tone it down.’ The last one was a little too intense for our label, I guess.” 

“You mean ‘Cut Thru U?’” you said, grinning. “I’m not surprised you had a hand in writing that one. It sounds like you.” 

“Does it?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. He propped himself up on one arm, his cheek resting against his palm. “You know my sound, Angel? I’m touched. I don’t feel like I get to shine much in a group like this, but it’s worth it if you can hear me coming through.” He smiled, tilting his head. “You should come to Seoul sometime. I could show you around, give you a tour of the studio. Maybe we could even do that collab.” Heat washed over you at the mere suggestion. Being close to him. Being in the same country, the same room. You’d do something stupid, make a fool of yourself for sure. But the appeal was undeniable.

“There’s no way you have time for that,” you said, half-joking, half-hoping.

Ji-Woon’s smile curled into a downright devious smirk. He looked pleased with himself, like he’d just thought of some new hell to inflict on his producer. “Hm. Maybe not,” he said, and you tried to stamp out your disappointment and enjoy his company. You talked for hours—late into the night for you, well into his next practice session for him. He finally let you go when he caught a yawn you didn’t hide well enough behind your hand. You heard him humming your newest song under his breath just before he hung up.

A few months of bizarre internet friendship later, a confirmation email was forwarded to your inbox. Roundtrip tickets for a KoreanAir flight. Reservations at an upscale hotel in downtown Seoul. All paid, reserved for a week of travel. He didn’t check with you ahead of time, didn’t ask if you would be free. You’d have to take time off work, miss a lot of hours and even more pay. It only took a single conversation with Ji-Woon—a smile, a sweet whisper of _“Angel~!”_ —to convince you.

*

Impossible, Yun-Jin had said. It couldn’t have been just a few days since the massacre. She’d been here too long, died too many times. You understand now. 

You stop counting trials. Time is meaningless. You get used to the chill down your spine when it’s your turn to get thrown to the wolves. Sometimes you even survive. The campfire is a reassuring constant, endless chatter, temporary safety, the sound of Kate’s guitar. Arguments are infrequent but vicious, and this one is no different. 

You come limping back, leaning against Zarina, from a hard-won fight for survival. You hear her click her tongue in disapproval as soon as you’re in earshot. Shouting and screaming, stomping through the dirt. There’s a crowd of nervous onlookers, a few people in the middle trying to break it up. Zarina steers you away towards somewhere quieter, but you break off from her with an appreciative smile. You can’t ignore this. You heard Yun-Jin’s voice. 

“Can you scrounge up an ounce of sympathy for somebody else for once?” Laurie snaps, the sharp words cutting through the din of murmurs around the campfire. “It’s fucked up. They deserve to know. You saw that—that _thing._ I would want to know something like that was going on.”

“You don’t know anything about us,” Yun-Jin says coldly. “You don’t know what we went through. What he _put_ us through. Don’t say a word of this to them.” 

“Don’t say a word about what?” Both of them freeze at the sound of your voice. Laurie steps in front of you, as if to shield you from Yun-Jin.

“Listen,” she says, squeezing your shoulder. “We came across something disturbing at the asylum during our last trial. Don’t worry, Meg and I are going to tear it down.” 

Meg is there, too, standing further away. Her arms are crossed. She’s staring at you with an unreadable expression, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. You realize they’re all doing that. Keeping their distance, eyes full of pity. “What was it?” you ask. Laurie looks pained. Meg just shakes her head. Desperately, you look to Yun-Jin, but she won’t meet your eyes. “It has something to do with him, right?” She nods. 

Laurie begs you to reconsider—she wants to talk about it, not traumatize you, she insists to Yun-Jin—but you’ve already made up your mind. Laurie carries a small picture frame, a charred photograph behind the cracked glass. You follow her to the bonfire and watch her toss it in. Ash spits out and twisting plumes of black smoke curl around you, burning your eyes. You wrench them shut, and when you open them again, you’re beneath a sickly yellow sky. Skeletal trees and old iron fences stand sentinel in the asylum yard.

“Stay close and stay quiet,” Meg says. She takes point, leading with quick, silent footsteps. “If he’s here, we’re leaving.”

Laurie lags behind with you, her pace through the dead leaves slow and indecisive. She looks like she wants to say something, but she never does. The spired silhouette of the chapel appears through the foggy haze. Light shines faintly through colorful stained glass, a rare spot of beauty in this husk of a world. He would be here, wouldn’t he? Memories come flooding back. Kaleidoscopic strobe lights. Extravagant costumes. Glitzy stage platforms. Ji-Woon’s whole world was blindingly bright to hide all of the shadows underneath. 

“Are you okay?” Laurie asks. You’re at the chapel, the only one not inside. Laurie stands halfway in an open, overgrown doorway, her gaze soft with understanding. “You don’t have to do this.”

You don’t know how to answer. Past her, further inside, Meg runs her hand along the back of a splintered pew. Yun-Jin faces away from you, standing beneath the chandelier. You know she’s thinking the same thing as you; there was a music video just like this. “The Secret,” another chart-topping NO SPIN hit. The video used an abandoned church as a backdrop, shards of stained glass glowing prismatic across the set. Ji-Woon had snuck you a selfie while they were filming, showing off eerie makeup, curling horns, and striking yellow contacts.

 _“I get to play the part of a demon,”_ came the message right after. _“Pretty perfect, right~?”_

Plaster peels and rots away on the walls as you climb the groaning chapel steps. Tepid light filters through the windows. You see it before Meg can point it out, before Laurie can try to block your view. It’s there, dead-center beneath the stained glass, impossible to miss. Half-melted candles are arranged with artistic purpose across the floor, casting flickering shadows. 

There is a single photo of you in a silver frame, smiling candidly. You recognize a view of Seoul’s cityscape behind you, a view from a balcony. Surrounding the picture are cracked jewel cases and glittering shards of broken CDs—all your music, the rare physical copies sent out to celebrate new album releases. There are scraps of clothing perfumed with the scent of your preferred shampoo, wrapped around bundles of animal bones. There is a heap of wilted bouquets, desiccated roses curled up like dead spiders and blackened baby’s breath. All of it sits on a bed of crumpled sheet music, pages upon pages of singed and bloodied papers. 

You can’t breathe. The sight of this twisted shrine sends a shock through you. Where did he get all of these things? How did they come to be here, in this horrible place? This is a labor of love, meticulously assembled. A work of art. The devotion, the attention to detail, is frightening. 

“This kind of thing can happen sometimes,” Laurie says, hesitantly. You both know nothing quite like this has ever happened here. “When those monsters come, they bring stuff with them. Familiar things. Pieces of home. We think they can conjure some of the things they want when they sleep, just like we can.” You’re only vaguely aware of what she’s saying, unable to tear your eyes away from Ji-Woon’s collection of you. He wanted this. He wanted all of these things, these little reminders of you. He conjured it all out of the void with frightening accuracy. “I think it’s an offering,” Laurie says. Her voice seems quiet and far away. “Like the things we burn. He made this to appeal to that Thing in the sky. He asked It to bring you here.” 

*

_Accelerando._ In the blink of an eye, your whole life was uprooted. Your one week in Seoul turned to three. You quit your job when a new one fell into your lap, a suspiciously well-timed invitation for Angelonia to write several songs for NO SPIN’s next album. You couldn’t wrap your head around how it’d happened. You were nobody. You didn’t even play in the same genre. Ji-Woon sent you the entire digital documentation to apply for a work visa as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and you couldn’t help but notice most of it had already been completed for you.

The rumor mill was running rampant. NO SPIN fansites were in heated discussion over the nature of Angelonia and Ji-Woon’s relationship long before any details of your new songwriter position was revealed. Friends? Lovers? Respected colleagues? You kept popping up in paparazzi street shots of Ji-Woon in his leisure time, eating at trendy cafes together or sharing a bench in the park. He certainly wasn’t doing anything to stop the rumors, either. You started to suspect he was fanning the flames on purpose. He became cagey in interviews when the subject of you arose, giving suggestive non-answers with a knowing smile. 

“We’re very close,” he’d say. “I think they know me better than anyone.”

A day later, a photo appeared on the cover of a tabloid. You couldn’t read the caption, but you didn’t have to. The picture was of the two of you waiting at a crosswalk. Ji-Woon’s hand was on your waist.

Things came to a head. Yun-Jin invited herself on an outing to a cafe with the two of you. Your first impression of her was dazzling. She carried herself with complete confidence, as impossibly gorgeous as the boys whose band she rescued from obscurity. A crystal hairpin kept her bangs out of her face and her lipstick was a warm, coral color, sweet-looking. She sat herself across from you, laced her hands together over the table, and glanced between you and Ji-Woon. 

“This,” she said wryly, “needs to stop.”

It was clear from the start that she didn’t like you. From a professional standpoint, she simply couldn’t. You were a scandal waiting to happen. “He can’t date,” she told you. “He can’t even give off the _suggestion_ of dating. It’s important that NO SPIN’s members have the allure of singleness without feasible attainability. You’re going to stay away from him for a while so you don’t damage his image any further. And _you,_ ” she looked to Ji-Woon, “are going to answer the damned question the next time an interviewer wants to know if you’re dating Angelonia. You could’ve shut this down weeks ago.” 

“Is _that_ what they were asking~?” Ji-Woon said airily. “They were being so roundabout I wasn’t sure.” 

Yun-Jin looked as though she might leap across the table and wrap her hands around his throat for just a moment before she composed herself. She returned her attention to you. “I’d like to see you at the studio tomorrow,” she said. “This album is going to launch right before Christmas. Mightee One is expecting massive, chart-topping sales, and NO SPIN is not going to underperform on my watch. You’re going to run every single word of your lyrics through me before they go anywhere. Is that clear?”

You nodded meekly. What the _fuck_ had you gotten yourself into? Here you were thousands of miles from home, with a job you weren’t sure you could keep and a new apartment with rent that wouldn’t pay itself. Yun-Jin didn’t stay a moment longer than she had to, leaving you and Ji-Woon in uncomfortable silence.

“I should probably go, right?” you said. You stood to leave but Ji-Woon grabbed your wrist. You tried to brush him off but his grip was surprisingly strong. 

“Miss Producer is all bark and no bite,” he said, tempting you with a sweet smile. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll give her what she wants with the interviews, but that doesn’t mean you have to start avoiding me. I wouldn’t like it if you did.” 

“I just got this job,” you told him. “I can’t afford to do something stupid right now.”

His fingers clamped down harder when you pulled away again. Something dangerous flickered across his face for just a moment, making your heart stop. But it was gone as soon as you thought you saw it, replaced with his dazzling smile. “You’re right,” he said, too easily. “I should be more responsible. Let me walk you home, at least? Then I’ll be good, I promise~.” 

You allowed him that, selfishly, knowing he was lying. You wanted one more walk together, one more chance to be close to him. You crossed through the park, autumn leaves falling to the pavement. Their color was striking beside him, a red curtain highlighting his beauty. Ji-Woon followed you into the apartment lobby and up the steps. You expected him to leave while you fumbled with your keys, or once you got the door unlocked, or maybe when you turned to say goodbye, but he didn’t. He pushed past you, letting himself inside. 

“What are you doing—?”

The words weren’t all the way out when his lips crashed into yours. You gasped and his tongue was in your mouth, licking into you. Stumbling, you felt your back hit the door. You were trapped there between the hard wood and Ji-Woon’s body, hot and firm and pressed against you. He slipped his knee between your legs and the friction made you shudder, moaning into his mouth. Your head was spinning. Your heart beat a mile a minute. He was flirtatious, you knew that, that was part of his stage persona, the image he’d cultivated, but this was just a fantasy you entertained in the dark. It couldn’t actually happen. He kissed you breathless and pulled back, licking his reddened, slick lips.

“I want you,” he murmured. He kissed your neck and you shouldn’t have done it, you knew you shouldn’t, but you leaned your head back to give him room and he chuckled against your skin, the sound rumbling through you. “Mmm? You want me too?” he purred, his tongue licking a hot stripe over your pulse. “Can I hear you say it?” You hesitated. You thought about Yun-Jin’s warning and the precarious situation you found yourself in. Ji-Woon hooked his fingers beneath your chin and made you look at him, his head tilted, his eyes lidded and smoldering. “Don’t you want me, Angel?” 

Your hands were still tangled in his shirt. You smoothed out the wrinkles you’d left, not meeting his eyes. “How many people have you seduced like this?” you asked. His mouth opened but no sound came out. You’d startled him. Caught him off guard. “The allure of singleness without feasible attainability,” you mused. “What bullshit.” 

Ji-Woon laughed that wonderful, unrestrained laugh you first heard that stormy night. Warmth and longing bloomed in your chest. “Your tongue’s almost as sharp as Miss Producer’s sometimes,” he said fondly. “You’re right, I’ve done this before. I don’t know how many times. I don’t keep track. It’s so easy. People just keep giving me whatever I want.” He traced your lips with his thumb. “Even you. You’re fighting it as hard as you can, but you want to give yourself to me. I can feel you trembling. You think I haven’t noticed how flustered you get when I just brush against you by ‘mistake?’” 

You struggled not to lean into his gentle caress, the back of his hand grazing your cheek in a movement so sweet and tender your knees started to shake. He was dangerous. He could hurt you badly if he wanted, and you would let him. “Just tell me one thing,” you said, shivering when he made an expectant, _“hm?”_ against your throat, lavishing the side of your neck with open-mouthed kisses. “Do you only want me because you’re rebelling against your producer?” 

He paused, pulling back far enough to meet your gaze. “If I answer, will you tell me to leave?” 

You wished you would. You wished there was anything in the world that could convince you to stop this before it goes any further. But you shook your head. How had you cultivated this strange honesty with each other? He never bothered to lie about important things. Maybe that was why you melt against him when he pressed you into the door again, his mouth hot on yours. One of his hands found the edge of your shirt and slipped under the fabric. It was electric, the feeling of his hand on your bare skin. 

He parted with you only briefly, unable to stop himself from coming back and nipping at your lips. “No,” he said, punctuating the word with a sharper bite. “No, that’s not the only reason. But it is one of them.” An unasked question hovered in the small space between you. Ji-Woon waited a breath, watching your eyelashes flutter. He smiled knowingly. You wanted him so much it hurt. He ran his hands down your arms in a slow, sensual caress, lacing your fingers together. What was this? A fling? An act of ownership? Your heart was going to burst. Your eyes shut instinctively when you feel his breath on your lips. He whispered, “I need you, Angel,” and you were his.

*

There’s a crunch, a sickening splatter. The unmistakable sound of a body falling, deadweight slamming to the floor. Blood spreads in a wide, red shadow beneath Laurie’s body, pouring from the flattened crater that used to be the side of her head. _Subito!_ A rush of movement, glinting steel and danger. Meg falls to her knees, clutching the knife lodged in her throat, screaming soundlessly. They’re both dead before you can say a word. He wipes the blood and brain matter from his weapon, seemingly enamored with the way it sticks to his fingers. He’s humming. You know that song. You want to run but you’re rooted to the spot, awash in shock, horror and fear. 

Ji-Woon sees you, looks you over from head to toe, and smiles. You want it to be crooked and sick, a stranger’s sneer, but it’s not. It’s dangerous. It’s threatening. It turns your stomach and sends heat rushing between your legs. You know that smile. You’ve seen it a hundred times before. 

“Did I scare you?” he says. “Sorry, the rules are different when it’s not a trial. You won’t hear me coming, and I won’t waste time with hooks.” He takes a step closer. Yun-Jin throws herself in front of you. She’s shaking. “That’s so cute of you, Miss Producer. Trying to look brave for Angel. But you’ve gotten to spend lots of time with them already, and I haven’t seen them once since I got here. Can’t you share~?” 

The futile _“don’t”_ is on the tip of your tongue when he swings. You’re a coward. You squeeze your eyes shut. You hear the impact, feel Yun-Jin’s blood spatter warm and wet across your face, hear her hit the ground. You shudder, tears rolling down your cheeks. It’s a nightmare. This is all a nightmare. You cover your mouth to stifle a sob. 

“Ohhh, _Angel,”_ Ji-Woon purrs. You flinch when he touches you, bloodsoaked fingers stroking your cheek. That’s Laurie and Meg and Yun-Jin on his hands. “I’ve been fantasizing about this. It’s almost too much, having you in front of me now. I can’t decide what I want to do first.” His hands cup your face. “Look at me, Angel.” 

Something in you jumps to obey, even now. He’s so close to you, his head tilted and his lips parted in that curious, boyish way just like he used to when everything wasn’t so fucked up. He studies you, scrubs smudges of dirt from your face, smooths gentle fingers over your scrapes and scratches. 

“It really is you,” he says, soft and awed. “I’m glad. I was worried something might go wrong. Maybe It wouldn’t bring the right person, or maybe you wouldn’t be yourself. I wondered if you’d changed without me. But you haven’t changed at all, have you?” He kisses you, nibbles your lower lip and urges you to open to him. Your whimpering and half-hearted struggles make him laugh. “Oh, Angel. Are you upset~?” he coos. You shake your head. You want to wake up. Temporary, it’s all temporary, it was all supposed to be. But the music, you both know, is forever. “Well, _so am I.”_

With sudden movement, a powerful note of _sforzando,_ he stabs you. The knife drives into your shoulder and the scream that tears from your lungs is wretched. Ji-Woon is utterly transfixed, charmed by the sound, holding you close to him and brushing stray hair from your face so he can clearly see your agony. A thousand pleas spill from you, _don’t_ and _please_ and _Ji-Woon, Ji-Woon,_ all but his name going unheard. He shivers when you say it. He stares at your lips, watches you shape each sound with dazed eyes.

“Good,” he murmurs. Praising you. “That’s good, Angel. Just what I dreamed you’d sound like. But,” he chuckles, grasping the knife handle and _twisting_ , churning flesh and mincing muscle tissue, “you’re not loud enough. Don’t give me a _mezzo-piano_ when I want a _fortissimo,_ okay? Let’s try again. Like you mean it this time.” 

“Kill me,” you say hoarsely. 

“Mmm. Not yet.” He kisses your cheek. “I’m still mad at you. You did something terrible to me, you know? You almost slipped through my fingers. I could’ve lost you forever. I was devastated, Angel. I thought I’d never recover. You have to make it up to me.” 

You have excuses. Things you practiced in your head over and over. There are hurtful words you’d wanted to say, little vengeful stabs. None of them come to mind now. Ji-Woon holds you in a cruelly tender embrace, rocking you gently as though slow dancing. He turns the knife ever so slightly further and blood gushes from the wound. You wheeze, raking your nails down his chest. 

“So?” he says. “What’s your excuse?” He smiles and he says the words he always asks in every nightmare, so sweetly, warm and whispered against your ear. “ _Why weren’t you there that day, Angel?”_

You don’t answer. You can’t. Ji-Woon starts to laugh and the sound echoes in the broken church, sharp and haunting in your mind. “Does it matter?” you say desperately. “Would it have changed anything?” Wrong answers. Worthless ones. Ji-Woon doesn’t accept them. He shoves you, pushes you stumbling through the shrine made in obsessive passion, your shoes crunching through broken CDs and dead flowers. Colored light pours around you through the stained glass at your back.

“You’re terrified,” Ji-Woon marvels. “You’re _guilty!_ Oh, Angel! How long have you kept those feelings inside? Let them out now. It’s okay.” He wraps his fist around the knife and you stammer, you beg, your words devolve into a miserable screech when he _yanks_ it out of you with a crunching splatter. He grins at you, savage and mad. “Go on. Say it. You know I’ll listen. From one empty person to another, I promise I’ll understand. So do it. Explain yourself. Spill your heart to me. _Beg for my forgiveness.”_

You shake your head, fighting the impulse to apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. Not to him. Ji-Woon is amused by your defiance, endeared by your pitiful struggles, how you bite and claw and shove uselessly against his strength. He matches the depths of your emotion, his viciousness swelling with your desperation. You cry out when he throws you to the floor, on top of your shattered music, unfinished songs and dead dreams. You smell the stale, brittle flowers, the shampoo he bought you in a Seoul department store; the scent he liked best for you.

Ji-Woon’s hands wrap around your throat and _squeeze._ The world goes wavy and dark at the edges. Your hands scrabble over the thick yellow material of his coat. A bold look from a music video in the twilight of his solo career. “The Show Must Go On,” wild dance beats paired with playful, retrospective lyrics. Trickster appears in a flash, coalescing spotlights and wisps of smoke, as though summoned by the promise of a spectacle. He lets you breathe and the memory melts away as you gasp air back into your lungs. Near death, and all you can think of is him. You try to run but your legs give out underneath you. Ji-Woon crouches beside you, smiling.

“You really have nothing to say?” he asks, feigning sadness, but it sounds real. The hurt, the quiver in his voice. He puts his whole body into the performance, slumped over you, brows furrowed and eyes shining with unshed tears. You wouldn’t know he was full of shit if not for his smirk. “Not to me? Not even to dear Miss Producer?” 

Your blood runs cold when you see Yun-Jin’s body flinch. She’s alive. Bleeding profusely, skull impacted, one eye half-lidded and the pupil abnormally expanded, but alive, shaking on the floor. 

“You left her _all alone~!”_ Ji-Woon says. “I wanted so badly for you to watch me together. That’s how it was supposed to be. A small, intimate audience. My favorite people, come to support me for the most important performance of my life. You could have held each other in the end. But poor Yun-Jin could only cry your name.” He puts on a terrible falsetto, a hand clutched to his chest. “Angel, oh Angel! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I should’ve been kinder! I should’ve told you everything!” Yun-Jin watches helplessly, trembling with silent sobs. Ji-Woon shakes his head in disapproval. “Look at us,” he says, smirking down at you. “What a mess. She tried to act like she was relieved you weren’t there, you know. Every trial, she would taunt me that I’d never have you, all the while knowing she never would, either. It ate away at us.” 

“Stop,” Yun-Jin says. The word is nothing but a ragged whisper. She’s weak, barely holding on; _morendo._ But she pulls herself across the floor with her ruined nails, blood seeping into her coat. None of it matters anymore. None of it means anything. “Stop, Ji-Woon.” 

He smiles at her, lets her come close. Gently, he strokes her hair, untangling clots of blood and grime. Yun-Jin reaches for you. She touches, strokes your face. Her dying breaths are spent whispering your name. “We made this altar together,” Ji-Woon says. “One piece at a time.” 

The world whirls around in breathtaking _prestissimo._ Too much, too fast. You can’t understand it. Memories ebb and flow, the love and the pain and all of the regrets. You take Yun-Jin’s cold hands and hold them. Tears come and you don’t try to stop them. “I’m sorry,” is all she says. 

Ji-Woon’s weight settles behind you. You feel his hands wandering, teasing. They stray lower, rubbing your thighs. “Look at us,” he says, peppering your neck with sharp kisses. “Three empty people. Do you understand, Angel? We need each other. It’s just like your song.” Your small, timid, _“no,”_ doesn’t convince him, doesn’t stop him tugging at your clothes. You swing your arm back and he catches it, twists it at a painful angle behind you. He’s humming again. Yun-Jin lets out a raspy breath and closes her eyes. 

*

There was the fire. There were the murders. Trickster’s music got darker and nobody batted an eye, but sympathy didn’t turn into sales. The long-awaited collaboration was an unceremonious affair, a desperate attempt to drum up interest in the next album. You expected Ji-Woon to throw a tantrum when Yun-Jin told him they needed to rush production, but he brightened up instead. “Why don’t you pitch in, then, Miss Producer?” he’d said. “Wouldn’t it be even more exciting to have Magnum Opus’ name on this song?” 

Yun-Jin had been shocked speechless, as though it’d never crossed her mind. You saw her eyes narrow, considering it. “I’d love to work with you,” you said. She’d looked at you with such intensity you’d almost regretted saying anything. She wasn’t angry. You couldn’t quite tell how she felt. But in the end she nodded and sat down beside you. She was too close, constantly in your space and brushing up against you, pushing you further into Ji-Woon, but you didn’t complain, and neither did he.

*

Ji-Woon fucks you hard and fast, hips slamming into you with obscene, rhythmic slaps. “You feel so _good,_ Angel. Just like I remember,” he purrs. He scratches your hips raw and bloody, hooking his nails into the half-moons left there and digging them deeper. Humiliation heats your face. Yun-Jin watches, unable to tear her eyes away. You try not to meet her gaze but Ji-Woon knows, somehow, reaching around to grasp your chin and keep your head from drooping. “Tell Yun-Jin how good it feels. Say, ‘I love Ji-Woon’s cock.’”

Your knees ache, bruising against the wooden floor. Ji-Woon’s pace knocks the breath out of you. You struggle just to cry out. But your silence angers him, your defiance of a very basic order. Your warning is brief; his hand leaving you, replaced by the teasing caress of a knife edge. He traces curling patterns, nicking your skin, and then slams the knife into your side. You shriek, the agony amplified by how his thrusts move you, the wound unsettled and gaping. 

“Say it,” Ji-Woon growls. He starts to twist the knife and you feel your insides pulling, knotting up, bending at his whim. Something broken pours out of you, a feeble and incomprehensible mess of sound. “Again, Angel. Speak clearly. Hurry up before I get impatient.”

“Ji...Ji-Woon,” you say, his name making him groan and grind against a spot inside you that makes your thoughts white out for a blistering moment. “P...please…”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he coos. His fingers graze one of your hardened nipples, tweaking and toying with it. You can’t think straight. You can’t tell pain from pleasure. The movement of his hips slows to deep, grinding motions. There’s another knife brushing against your thigh and you can’t, _you can’t,_ you beg him not to and he just laughs. _“Say it.”_

“I l-love Ji-Woon’s cock,” you sob. 

He hisses, twitching inside you. He pulls his hips back, teases you with the head of his cock, and slams back in. In the same movement, the knife drives into your thigh. You can’t keep your balance, your arms folding under you. You feel used. Your cheek cools in a pool of your own tears as Ji-Woon crawls over you, mounting you like an animal. He hurts you, fills you completely, laughing and snarling in your ear. “I love that you’re mine,” he moans, his voice unforgivably beautiful, even now. “Both of you, all mine. Silly Angel, thinking you could get away. You’ve been mine from the start.” 

The song he makes with your body is obscene; skin slapping, pelvis to pelvis, your pained cries and the sick sound of your flesh opening around another knife. There’s nothing left in you to scream, just whimper and cry his name softly. Yun-Jin is still and silent. Maybe dead. You hope so, for her sake. You don’t think of the after yet, the inevitable confrontation back at the campfire. There’s just the present, Ji-Woon groaning as his hips piston and his balls slap your ass, over and over. 

“I’m gonna cum, Angel,” he says. “Are you ready? I’m gonna cum inside. Make you mine again.” He pulls out of you, leaves you achingly empty, but not for long. You make a wounded sound when he manhandles you, rolls you callously on your back. The knives shift in your side, burrowing deeper, scraping bone. The floor is sticky with your blood. He manages to pull one last scream from you when he bends your body nearly in half, your legs over his shoulders as he bears down on you. There’s no fight left in you, nothing that can resist or even plead for mercy when he flips another knife between his fingers. He strokes himself, watching as you struggle to stay conscious. You shouldn’t. You should let death take you. But something won’t let you.

Ji-Woon’s eyes never leave yours as he pleasures himself and guides the knife into your abdomen. He sings the words you wrote, the ones that first brought you closer; a song about empty people.

_I broke you open, laid you down_

_And not a single thing came out_

_I thought if I could make you bleed_

_Then I could fill you up with me_

He slides his cock inside you, one hand on your hip, the other cutting you open. His movements are sloppy, disorganized. He’s reaching his peak. But he holds on and gives his all to this performance, this music unlike anything he’s ever made before. The jerky, slow thrusts grow impatient, rushed, pounding into you. His hand is so slick with blood he loses the knife somewhere, drops it clattering to the floor. He doesn’t need it anymore. You feel him reach into the wound and grab fistful of you, ripping everything out of place. He’s inside of you, filling you, slick and red up to his elbow. His hips never stop moving.

“Say my name,” Ji-Woon mutters, husky and strained. You have nothing left. No breath. No strength. Sheer will keeps you anchored in your body, staring blearily into golden eyes. Somehow, your sore, blistering throat manages to obey him and his name spills from your lips.

“Ji-Woon,” you whisper. Can he even hear you over his harsh breaths, the ferocity of his thrusts? “Ji-Woon, Ji-Woon...Ji-Woon...Ji...” 

Ji-Woon falls over you, holds you, fucks you through his violent climax. He cums with a long, low moan, grinding into your heat and filling you with every last, frantic thrust. You dimly see yourself, the mess he made of you; the bites and bruises, imprints of his need. A rope of intestines lies half-exposed on your stomach, torn loose in a fit of passion. Darkness creeps in around the edges of the world and closes in on you, softly, blissfully. Curtain call. 

“Oh, Angel. Dying on me already?” he says. His lips brush yours, the ghost of a kiss. “That’s alright. You’ll be back. I’ll drag you back here myself if I have to. Maybe Yun-Jin will even help me.” He chuckles, shutting your eyelids. Warm. He’s warm. You wish he didn’t feel so human. The last thing you hear is singing. Your mouth moves soundlessly. You know the words.

*

_“They’re trying to figure out if I’m expired goods. It’s a pretty high-pressure performance. You’ll be there, right? Of course you will, my Angel~”_

_“Ji-Woon’s on thin ice. What a headache. Can you be at the Mightee One Entertainment office this afternoon? After he’s done, there’s something important we have to discuss.”_

You sat in your Seoul apartment, switching back and forth between messages. The window was open to let in the breeze. Ji-Woon’s hickeys were on your neck. You thought about him, this new city he’d trapped you in, the job he’d ensnared you with. You didn’t want to go home. You couldn’t stay here. The walls felt too close, suffocating. You stared at the messages and the blinking cursor in the response box. You stared until the sun went down.

_*_

_And I buried it where I grow the flowers_

_Watered it just to pass the hours_

_Wondered where its roots might go_

_If it’d been allowed to grow_

_There it festered, sick and dead_

_Right beneath my flowerbed_

_And everything that grew above_

_Was twisted by our awful love_

— “Necromancer” by Trickster feat. Magnum Opus and Angelonia


End file.
